Things Left Unspoken
by LittleEnglishLass
Summary: They're just shapes on a page once again…as meaningless to her as they ever were. Full summary inside.


**Okay, so quick lowdown on wtf this is even about. ****A while back, I had a dream. I won't bore you with the details, but basically the dream sparked the inspiration for a character and eventually, a fanfic. **

**In the most basic of terms, I aim to one day write a fanfic that starts off several years _before_ the events of the first book, and carry it on through the series. The fic will be a very, _very _slow build close friendship-turned romance between Milly (the woman in this oneshot, my own creation) and The Captain (the man in this oneshot).**

**Oh, and just so people are aware. I have not read the last two books yet, though I'm hoping to get around to it soon. Any massive revelations about the characters ect is completely unknown to me at this point. Please forgive any faux-pas, as it was not intended. I'm merely going by what I know so far and inserting a bit of AU into it. Because why not?**

**That's all you really need to know. :)**

**Enjoy, and please don't forget to give me some feedback. I aim to give a general feel for how I may end up writing the fic itself, and see if anyone is interested. I'm very new to writing for this series, so any help getting the characters right will be much appreciated. **

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**Things Left Unsaid**

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They need no pretence of conversation to understand each other. The comfortable silence, interrupted only by the crackling of the fire and the sounds of pages turning, says more than words ever could.

She feels his gaze linger on her as she reaches up to push an errant lock of blonde hair back behind her ear. She looks up at him, her signature timid expression earning her the ghost of that gentle smile she would never admit craving with all her being. She refuses to provoke such a foolish desire. Despite this, a blossom of warmth stubbornly blooms in her chest, and a deep, traitorous colour flares in her cheeks. Slowly, she drops her eyes back down to the words on old pages bound in crimson leather.

She's been reading the same poem for a while now.

A moment passes, his gaze leaves her and she dares another glance. He doesn't seem to realise. She forgets the book she holds. The interest she may have originally had for its contents vanishes as she takes to reading a somewhat more indecipherable work of art.

He drinks in every word on the pages in front of him, though the stern glare that suddenly clouds his features indicates they are not to his admittedly refined taste. She wonders absently what he finds so abhorrent, before she turns her attention to another aspect of the familiar stranger who sits across the table from her. He seems cut from the same inky velvet of the night itself, the flickering glow from the fire turns the barely there veins of light in his cloak into glinting stars, while his smooth white mask becomes the moon.

A long forgotten part of her is set ablaze. She aches with a ferocious longing she doesn't dare identify, and her heart sounds out a deeply rooted need to reinforce the fact that he really is there after all, not a grand deception cast by the shadows to mock her with the delusion of paradise. She desperately wants to reach out and touch his chest, to see if his words are correct, if a beating heart is indeed absent, and is instead replaced by an ancient and eternal swirling well of energy and emotion.

She buries the impulses deep, feeling silly for even thinking such things. She forces herself to turn back to her book. The poem is her favourite. It's a love poem, a calm reflection on a quiet moment spent with a lover. He has read it to her often, and she remembers the way the shame over her inability to read it for herself would always tug at the back of her mind. She is glad of his lessons, glad of his generosity and patience in teaching her to recognise the symbols that eluded her for years…but she can't help feel as though all his efforts were in vain.

She likes to read, she truly does, but now the words seem so cold and distant when not being uttered by the mystery sat across from her. She doesn't find them so appealing any more. The frozen shapes jump from the page and smash to the floor as sharp, icy splinters. They used to dance in the air. The golden ribbons of light would twirl to the tune of the verses, glittering like diamonds in the firelight. They no longer dance. They lack the eloquence of his speech, the warmth and tenderness of his voice as he softly whispers the rhymes. Whispers them to her, only to her.

They're just shapes on a page once again…as meaningless to her as they ever were.

She jumps when he carefully slides the book from her hands. She hasn't noticed his approach, being too caught up in her thoughts. He stares at her with a strange expression, glancing to the poem and then back to her. For a moment she is confused. Then she realises.

He's heard her every thought.

How often had he remarked how strange it was, for someone so very quiet to have such loud thoughts? She feels mortified. Her cheeks burn with an intensity to rival the fire in the grate, and she dares not look at him. A warm gloved hand softly cups her chin, tilting her head up to meet his gaze.

He says nothing. Instead, he smiles that gentle smile she loves so much. For a moment, she forgets to breathe. His fingers ghost over her cheek in a slow, treasuring caress before pulling away. She lets go of the breath she hasn't realised she held, while her heart sounds a thunderous drum roll in her chest. Book in hand, he turns and settles back in his seat.

He begins to recite the words once more.

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**There we go. I hope you enjoyed. :)**


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